m o i r a
i am a lover
because i have felt hate
because i have felt hate
A
thousand days under the summer sun could never do justice to the warrior goddess, the golden girl that would rival Solus and Tempus and Time itself for the crown of light they spew. She is a living statue, a walking canvas of sparkling splendor that has aureate eyes fixed in the mirror. Oh, the phoenix could not look away from that slender smile if she tried, she is transfixed by the beauty given form, the light beneath her flesh and the sparkle in Florentine's eyes. The mysteries at the corners of her mouth draw the Pegasus in ever more.
Every breath is calculated and careful for fear that she would find them too shallow, too quick, too this or that should she not pay close enough attention. Every move, the conscientious winding and curling of her hair, is thought out as every band is placed back into it one by one. Meticulous. Precise. The movements of a surgeon, of a girl cultivated in a world where flaws were frowned upon and those with too many were tossed out. The culmination of another world mixing in the heart and blood of a phoenix ready to rise and burn once more.
Even the sorrow of her, the beauty of her brokenness, is a pale comparison to the splendor of the other winged woman. They are day and night, the burning gold desert skies and the red-hot sunsets over distant islands.
And yet... Between them there is a bridge, a boy, a man, a connection unfurling as fresh as a morning flower slowly opening before the dawn's gentle light. Dewdrops that could be tears glisten there. Words that could be roots reach out, reach for the phoenix as only one girl to another could.
There, between the stuttering of her heartbeat and the whisper of Neerja's skin pressed into her own, Moira Tonnerre finds Florentine's calming staccato movements coalescing with her words, evening out until it is a symphony of comfort and concinnity of comradery. The brush is between them on the counter as the healer finished the final weave in her waterfall braid. Dark hair is pulled away from her face, revealing those sharp cheek bones and expressive eyes, unveiling raindrop ears that tip and tilt toward the golden girl.
Between them, the silence is a soothing stand of darkness weaving them together. As Moira finished, her body turns so that she can face Florentine, so that Neerja can step forward, whiskers twitching, ears laying within gloriously rich orange fur. White around her eyes narrows with the narrowing of her brows, widens with the opening of her eyes. She sniffs the other - the newcomer - and huffs back to her companion.
"I will not ask for what I am not ready to hear... But I did have someone, once. Estelle," that midnight prayer, that litany on her lips, a rosary and balm to so many hollow nights. A single name should not be filled with such sorrow and heartbreak, a single name should not turn her knees to jelly and remind her of all she's likely lost.
Yet it does.
Quickly the tiger retreats, twining her tail around Moira's hind leg, playing with the anklet faithfully worth about her ankles. "Those days have gone now, but I have Neerja." And it is another answer, the answering jungle song that plays quietly between the two, their endless refrains sung back and forth where only their hearts can hear and dance and rejoice. "Tell me of your tiger, and I will show you how roses may come of your hair where no flower need ever die for us." Boldly she steps forward, lifting the brush once more. Tears are gone, but the shadow of sadness remains.
@Florentine | "speaks" | notes: ;u; they will be good friends
